


Fading Scent

by twoofdiamonds



Category: Original Work
Genre: (Very) short story, BDSM, Bittersweet, F/M, Masturbation, Praise Kink, emotional masochism, remembered intimacy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-12
Updated: 2015-03-12
Packaged: 2018-03-17 13:05:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3530456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twoofdiamonds/pseuds/twoofdiamonds





	Fading Scent

She steps out of the car and it’s like stepping through a Star Gate. A short walk down a street, and the street might as well be a galaxy cluster, each step as good as a light year. One minute... one and a half minutes ...and she’s back. Goodbye illicit-double-life. Hello The-Real-World.

 

The rest of the day is normal, distracting. She looks after children. She buys milk and worries about money. She keeps the family happy. It’s not until evening, grown-up evening, that she goes back into the room. The room that smells of him.

 

There were thoughts of him during the day, memories of last night. She pushed them back. How could she function as mother-daughter-sister otherwise? But now, in this room where they fucked, his scent hijacks her emotions, striking deeper than any of the physical memories in her muscles and cunt.

 

She goes to the bed, naked from the waist up, and lies face down, scenting the pillow, the duvet, the sheet. There’s nobody here to see so it doesn’t count. It all smells of him but faintly, too faintly, damn it. She takes the sheet, the sheet they fucked on, the sheet that she lay on while he held himself smiling over her ( _It’s been a while for you hasn’t it?_ ). He sweated in the night and it’s hers now. She carries it in her arms like a baby, takes it to her own bed.

 

 She kicks off her tights, skirt, knickers, leaves them in a pile on the floor. There’s nobody here to see so it doesn’t count. Greedy. She feels greedy. She wants to be wrapped in his smell. It takes a lot of rolling around before she’s mummified herself in the sheet, and quite a bit of wriggling and reaching with her toes before she’s under her own duvet too. Warm. Safe. Held together.

 

He calls her slut. She gets off on it, always has, they both do. There’s a praise-kink thing that she’s got going on now too. It makes her come harder. He used to order her to come but now it’s praise ( _That’s it, Good girl, Well done_ ) and she hears it every time she masturbates. Even more potent is the guilty pleasure of affection. Even a hint of possession ( _my slut_ ) arouses her on beyond belief. She figures that if she really was _his_ then it would be normal, right, healthy even, but she isn’t. The slightest hint of endearment reminds her of what she can never have and it hurts. Sometimes it’s agony, seizing hold of her womb and twisting, a potent blast of pleasure/pain. Emotional masochism. Or something. It turns her on like crazy.

 

 She’s warmed up now, getting a little hot, adding her own scent to the sheet, and that won’t do because it might drown his out somehow. Besides, she wants to touch herself and come. It was always her intention but right now she can’t move her arms.

 

Once unwound, she bunches the sheet up and clutches it, cheek to breast, on her left side, teasing her clit with the fingers of her right. Her feet are lifted, knees up by her shoulders, like she was last night, for him. Like a bitch submitting, asking for a tummy rub. Her legs aren’t spread too wide, not so much that her hips hurt, just right for staying this way for as long as possible, so that she can tease it out. If this was perfunctorily getting off then she’d keep her feet on the bed. She’d use her left hand and it would be quick and familiar. This is different though. He touches her with his right hand and she wants it back. She’s soaking wet already, probably has been all day. Her body is easy, naturally sluttish. She loves being exposed like this and he knows it.

 

She turns her face into the sheet and breathes. There are layers of smell. Years ago there had been the time when she was struck-stupid in Debenhams, smelling his cologne and searching frantically for the source, light-headed and creaming her knickers. Later, there had been a similar revelation when there was a bar of Pear’s Soap in her parents’ bathroom. She hadn’t realised, until then, that Pear’s Soap wasn’t a natural part of his smell. Afterwards she could separate the smells, like stripping back his layers. She hoarded the knowledge with the few other scraps he threw her, like a religious scholar entrusted with ancient texts, in a sadly meagre library.  

 

She’s there now, has been there for a while. She could orgasm at the twitch of a finger if she chose to, or by accident soon if she’s not careful, but she doesn’t. She teases and stops, waits until her body has stopped twitching and starts again, keeping herself close but not yet, not quite yet. He had bent her over her own kitchen work-surface and fucked his fingers into her cunt, and then the end of a riding crop. It had felt so good, surprisingly good, and she hadn’t wanted it to end. She slips her fingers back, away from her clit, running them around the entrance to her vagina. If she rubbed harder here then she could make herself come like that, now, when she’s been on edge for a while. So she does. She uses the flat of her fingers, hard and fast, squelching slick all over the place. She tells herself that she’s a slut, and fucking believes it, but when she comes, arching up ( _There we go_ ), face pressed into his memory ( _Well done_ ), she’s a good girl.

 

 Once is never enough. She closes and straightens her legs, rubs her clit and clenches her leg muscles, going off again straight away, not so hard but lovely and sweet. Then she lies there looking at the light fitting and wondering what he’s doing.

 

She sighs and lies on her side, pillowing the sheet beneath her head, but sleep doesn’t come. It’s a fine art, orgasming as a sedative. Once and quickly wouldn’t have been enough tonight, it wouldn’t tire her body sufficiently to convince her mind to sleep. Losing him will be fresh all over again for a while, and it will be painful if she lets it in. On the other hand, drawing it out too long would be a mistake because her body wouldn’t calm quickly enough to catch the Morningtown ride. Striking a balance will hopefully mean sliding comfortably into sleep. She doesn’t need as much sleep these days. Sleep is an ever-shrinking refuge from real life.

 

She concentrates on his smell on the sheets again, surprised that she can still smell him, that she hasn’t lost the scent through familiarity (she will be surprised again when she can still smell him in the morning, and the next night).

 

This time she rolls onto her front, arse in the air. There’s nobody here to see so it doesn’t count. It takes longer like this and it’s difficult to breathe with her face mashed into cotton. She uses her left hand this time, needing the comfort of her own touch and the familiar movements to get her there in this more difficult position. And it comes, slowly, pleasure swimming up through her body like warm honey. She opens her mouth on the sheet, wide and wet. Orgasms feel better when there’s something in her mouth ( _Good girl_ ).

 

Somebody must be smiling down on her. A guardian angel. She heaves the duvet up and drifts off to sleep, no tears, no pain.

 

She will shower tomorrow.


End file.
